A Killing Grace
by Savage Midnight
Summary: In the midst of war, two enemies fight on common ground to bring the blood bath to an end. Hate and prejudice are flung aside, boundaries are broken, and the inevitable sacrifices are made.
1. Part I

**Title: **A Killing Grace  
**Author: **Savage Midnight  
**Rating: **R  
**Disclaimer: **Any characters or concepts familiar to the Harry Potter universe belong to J.K. Rowling.  
**Summary: **In the midst of war, two enemies fight on common ground to bring the blood bath to an end. Hate and prejudice are flung aside, boundaries are broken, and the inevitable sacrifices are made.  
**Author Notes: **Written for the .mp3 fic challenge over at LJ. It's only about… say… four months late? Thanks to my beta's Di, to whom this is dedicated, and Erin, whose invaluable advice was immensely helpful.

---

_So much hate for the ones we love?  
Tell me, we both matter, don't we?_ -- Placebo, Running Up That Hill

---

**Part I**

A knife pressed against her throat and her wrists locked above her head was how morning found Hermione Granger.

Five a.m. on Good Friday, backed into the corner of an empty art gallery with Draco Malfoy looming over her, was not how she had planned to spend her Easter Weekend. There was meant to be chocolate and church and maybe a glass of wine or two, not knives and piercing grey eyes. It wasn't supposed to go like this.

"Malfoy," she whispered, and felt the pinch of the knife against her throat. No, not a knife. A dagger. A beautiful, sleek dagger with a sleeping dragon carved into the hilt. Malfoy's elegant fingers were curved around it almost lovingly and she lifted her gaze from it to look at him.

He was staring at her with hooded eyes and a lazy smile curving his lips.

"Granger," he drawled. "How have you been?"

"Better," she choked, and turned her face away from him. Her eyes fell closed and she took a deep breath, forcing her brain out of _panic_ mode and into _thinking_ mode. Her wand was a no-go, lost in the confines of her coat pocket, which was draped over one of the low benches at the far side of the room. There was no way she would reach it in time, even if she could somehow persuade Malfoy to let up a little.

She could _Accio_ it, but he would no doubt slit her throat before she had time to cast a curse.

Damn him. He had thought of everything. He had even positioned himself in such a way that Hermione couldn't fall back on the age-old contingency plan of kicking him in the bollocks. The boy was good, if nothing else.

"So Malfoy," she rasped, realising her only option was to stall until Harry or Ron or someone noticed she was gone. It would take a while -- she hadn't told any of them of her last minute decision to go skulking around art galleries in the middle of the night -- but she had hope. "Is this how you always approach the ladies? No wonder you never get laid."

Hermione expected him to sneer at her barb -- hell, she was preparing herself for a jolly good beating -- but Draco just laughed, a low, dark sound in the back of his throat. His eyes sharp with mirth, he smiled slowly and pressed the dagger deeper. Hermione winced.

"Now, now, Granger. We're not here to discuss my sex life."

"But we're here to discuss my well-being?" she scoffed, glaring at him. "I doubt it."

"Actually," Malfoy said, tilting his head and drawing the dagger down slowly over her collarbone. "That's exactly what I've come to discuss. Although a 'discussion' would suggest that you have some say in the matter." The dagger brushed against the curve of her breast and rose back up. His gaze followed and dark, solemn eyes met grey as he leaned in to whisper in her ear. "You don't."

She swallowed heavily and blinked back stinging tears. No point in crying about it. So Malfoy wanted her dead. It was nothing new.

"How does it feel, Malfoy?" she questioned quietly, voice thick with barely-contained loathing. She hated him. God, she hated him so much. "Being his lackey? Being told what to do, how to do it, when to do it. I bet it kills you that you couldn't do this sooner, that you had to wait for his word before you killed me. Tell me, I really want to know. I want to know what it feels like to be his puppet." She sneered the last word at him, mindless of her predicament and the fact that she was mere seconds from death. It was a bad idea. He was the one with the weapon.

The hand that held her wrists captive tightened and he leaned in closer. His silver eyes flashed with a quiet fury and Hermione thought that maybe she had pushed him too far this time.

"You're a fool, Granger," he said coldly. "You think because I wear the Dark Mark that I belong to him? I don't. I have my reasons. Some of them you can't even begin to comprehend. I am _not_ my father's son. I work alone. I take orders when I choose to, and even then, at a price. Someone ordered you dead, and unluckily for you, the price was right."

She stared at him in disbelief, her breathing harsh and panicked. "Someone hired you to kill me?"

Draco nodded once, never releasing his grip on her wrists. The dagger hovered over the hollow of her throat.

"Yes," he said. "It seems you've been snooping around, Granger. Talking to people you shouldn't. Digging up secrets that should have stayed buried. A few of the big-wigs are starting to worry."

She shook her head. "But I haven't--"

Realisation hit. She let out a harsh breath and rested her head back against her raised arms, letting her eyes slip closed. "The Ministry Vaults," she said softly. "There's something in the Vaults."

How many nights had she spent searching the numerous chambers within in the Ministry? As an Auror-in-training and a missionary in the war raging between Voldemort and the Order, information was vital. It was the difference between the downfall of the Dark Lord and the downfall of the Order itself, so Hermione had taken it upon herself to exhaust every possible resource, including the Vaults.

But the locked doors, the restricted sections, the missing volumes and artifacts; she had not given them a second thought. The Vaults held secrets, ones she now knew would have unraveled an intricate web of deceit, betrayal and corruption within the Ministry. And now she was going to die because she had almost stumbled upon them by accident. How unfair. How cruel.

"Do you know what the funny thing is?" Draco said, sliding the dagger back up to rest against her throat. "You never even knew. There it was, everything you were searching for, and you had no idea." He laughed, and in one smooth motion he spun her, sending her crashing to her knees. She cried out as her arms, still anchored above her head with his hand, protested against the strain.

He knelt down facing her and slid the dagger back in place. "Tell me, Granger," he said in a hushed tone, face solemn except for the slight curve of his lips. "How does it feel to be _my_ puppet?"

"Just do it, Malfoy," she said through gritted teeth. She tilted her head upwards and stared up at the ceiling, unwilling to let him see how afraid she truly was. Why couldn't it have been quick? Why this way when an _Avada Kedavra_ would have been quicker, more painless?

_Because he doesn't want it to be quick_, she thought, _or painless_.

It seemed in the few years since she had last seen the Slytherin Prince, he had grown ever more sadistic. The dagger alone was an attribute to his growing ruthlessness, a human tool that could inflict pain or silence it. It allowed for a much more creative death than a simple curse.

"Now why would I do that?" he said, and released her arms. Her body sagged and she fell sideways, a small sob escaping her. Draco moved to straddle her, and with one hand holding the dagger to her throat, he tucked a stray curl behind her ear with the other and whispered, "You're more useful to me alive."

He leant back and slid the dagger downwards and beneath the hem of her shirt. Hermione flinched when she felt cool metal against her skin.

"Then why take the job," she inquired, as she silently contemplated her escape. Her arms were free now, but her wand was still too far away. She doubted she could cause Malfoy much damage with her hands alone, so for now she was forced to keep him talking while she waited for an opportunity to present itself.

"If I hadn't, someone else would have," he reasoned. "Better me than anyone else. You know my weaknesses."

Hermione's brow furrowed and she looked at him in bewilderment. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because it's the truth," he said, and his honesty puzzled her even more. Why wasn't he killing her? Why was he being so quick to point out that she had some of the power here?

She shook her head in confusion. "I don't know any of your weaknesses, Malfoy."

"Sure you do." His lips curved into a mischievous smile. "I talk too much, and I have a bad habit of taunting mudbloods when I should be killing them."

"Then why don't you just do it!" she snarled. She was past scared now; every muscle was tense with anxiety and her nerves were shot to hell. She didn't know what to do or think or say. His words offered a tendril of hope that she clung to fiercely, but the dagger against the bare skin of her stomach told a different story.

"Is that what you want?" he said, and moved the dagger up until the point rested just above her heart. Hermione caught a quick glimpse of the Dark Mark curled around his forearm before she lifted her gaze to his.

He was looming over her, shocks of pure white hair falling into his eyes. He looked thoughtful, almost curious, as if he was truly interested in her answer.

"Do you want it to end, Hermione?" Her name rolled off his tongue with ease, as if he had been speaking it for years. No one would ever think that this was probably the first time he had ever used it.

The room fell silent and Hermione looked at him, really looked. Her killer was just a boy, not even twenty years old, with features that did not belong to a soul so corrupt. But his face was young and free from the scars of war, his sharp eyes so bright they looked almost innocent. He wore only black -- black t-shirt, black jeans, black combat boots – except for a silver watch on his right wrist. Everywhere she looked, death shone back at her like a beacon, from the dancing light of the dagger that hovered over her heart, to the liquid mercury of his eyes. If ever the name _Angel of Death_ was fitting, it was now.

She felt tears prick her eyes, and suddenly feeling tired beyond her years, she whispered, "Yes."

_Yes, I want it to end. But I don't want to die. I just want it to stop. I want to stop running, I want to stop hurting, I want my friends to stop dying._

She closed her eyes and memories, faces, snapped across the darkness. Ginny, beautiful Ginny, with her dead eyes and her shining hair the colour of blood. So much blood. She had drowned in it, as so many others had. Her parents. Neville and Pansy and George. Others were missing, had been gone for months; Mr. Weasley, Professor Lupin and Tonks. They were disappearing left, right and centre and Hermione was quietly waiting for the day that she never came back. Maybe today was that day.

But then Draco moved, slid backwards and rose to his feet. Hermione stared up at him, at the dagger he still held at his side, and wondered what had changed.

He was not the Draco she remembered; the spoilt child who lived in a world where blood meant power and privilege and prestige; the child who had sneered and whined and manipulated his way to the top in Hogwarts; the child who had idolised his father, who had been so eager to follow in his footsteps that he had taken the Dark Mark on his sixteenth birthday.

Draco was right. He was something else now. Darker, maybe. He was everything she had expected him to become -- dangerous and deadly -- except she hadn't expected this. He had grown into something she had not foreseen. This was not Lucius Malfoy's son, the Death Eater, the pureblood heir to the Malfoy throne. This was a man who cared nothing for the Dark Lord, who wielded his servitude as a weapon, who killed for nothing more than self-gratification and personal gain.

She didn't know which was worse. A boy who killed to serve another, or a man who killed to serve himself. The latter was unlikely to care what happened to a lone war missionary such as herself, unless she was somehow able to cater to his selfish whims and offer him something valuable in exchange for her life. 

But what?

She obviously possessed something -- information maybe? -- which Draco was directly or indirectly interested in, otherwise she would have been dead already. She highly doubted that good old-fashioned sentimentality would have stopped him from killing her had the price been right.

So that meant she was important somehow. Draco needed her. But did she need him?

_I need him to stay sane_, she thought wryly. _A sane Malfoy is better than an I'm-going-to-chop-you-into-little-pieces Malfoy._

"What do you want?" she said, rising unsteadily to her feet and moving cautiously towards one of the benches, all the while watching him warily out of the corner of her eye. She felt the smooth stone seat hit the back of her knees and sagged down on to it. She suddenly had a deep desire to be at home, wrapped up warm and safe in her cosy little bed.

Draco stared at her for a long moment, slate-grey eyes thoughtful. Hermione couldn't read the expression on his face, but it was an alien look.

And then, "I need your help."

That was all he said. No apology for trying to kill her. Nothing. Just four words she never thought would pass Draco Malfoy's lips.

"Why?" was her suspicious reply. Why would someone like Malfoy need her help? She didn't understand. Hell, she was struggling to understand a lot of things tonight. Like why the death threats? Why not just ask her straight out?

_Because he wanted me to know_, she thought. _He wanted me to know that he could have killed me tonight. That he can still kill me if he chooses. And now he thinks I have a death wish. Great._

"Why?" she repeated when he didn't answer.

Draco shook his head and turned away from her, moving towards the far left corner of the gallery and settling himself down. Hermione could just make out his profile in the dull morning light, but the shadows hid his face. He was silent and still for a long moment, and then he spoke.

"I've seen... things," he said huskily. "Things that haven't happened yet. My mother dead. My father beyond caring." She heard him swallow heavily. "I've seen armies lining the streets, filling the cities, from one end of the earth to the other. Muggles dead and dying. Half-bloods chained and gagged. And nothing's changed." He laughed and the sound made her shiver.

"Draco--"

"Nothing's changed at all," he repeated in a whisper and Hermione fell silent. "We're still his slaves. Purifying the races served no purpose but his own. Except now he owns us. We can't sleep or eat or fuck without him knowing about it." She saw him turn his head towards her, but she couldn't see his face or his eyes. There was just darkness. "I won't live that way. I spent seventeen years living under someone else's rule. I won't do it again."

And in the end it came down to this: a boy fighting for his freedom. His freedom to kill and maim and hate as freely as he wished.

Draco Malfoy hadn't changed. He had evolved.

She rose from the bench and moved towards him slowly. Yes, she definitely had a death wish, approaching her sworn enemy with nary a wand nor a weapon in sight. But she was past caring. She was angry.

She knelt down in front of him and in tight voice said, "Do you even care? Knowing your mother will die? That thousands will die because he demands it?"

He hit her. She didn't even see it coming. One moment she was kneeling in front of him, the next she was on her back. She scrambled up and away, nursing her wounded cheek with her hand as she stared at him in shock.

It was worse than having a dagger held to her throat. Why, she didn't know. He had threatened to kill her, had spent years tormenting her, but never once had he laid a hand on her. Until now. Hermione was reeling.

She watched him move. He slinked out of the shadows and stared down at her with hateful grey eyes. His lips were pulled back in a snarl, revealing perfect white teeth, and he hissed, "You're fortunate. I've killed people for less. Now get up."

She didn't move. She couldn't. Fear held her still as she stared up at the boy before her. She had never seen him look so angry, so fierce. The look on his face was pure predatory and it froze the blood in her veins.

"Get. Up."

This time she forced herself to move. She knew what he was capable of now. Before today his threats had amounted to very little and she had foolishly believed that Draco Malfoy was nothing more than a petulant little boy with a chip on his shoulder. How wrong she had been.

She rose unsteadily to her feet, knowing if she didn't he would force her upright himself.

She stood up straight and eyed him warily. She tried to feign nonchalance, to pretend that she wasn't afraid of him, but she knew it wasn't working. Draco knew she was afraid and there was no doubt in her mind that he would use it to his advantage.

"Now that I have your undivided attention," he said, taking a step towards her. "Lets get a few things clear." He paused in front of her. "Firstly, you're right. I don't give a damn about the people who are going to die. I haven't changed, Hermione. I didn't suddenly discover my inner humanitarian over night, nor will I ever. I refuse to waste my time worrying about those who matter very little to me."

He took another step towards her and casually swept her hair away from her face and over her shoulder. His hand drifted back to brush against her wounded cheek, fingers trailing a path along her skin as he moved down to cup her chin. He lifted her face until she was staring into his eyes. "Secondly," he said in a soft tone that belied the venom beneath, "if you mention my mother again, I will kill you. Just because I don't care about the many, doesn't mean I don't care about the few. Remember that."

He dropped her chin and turned away from her, heading towards the door. She stared after him, confused beyond words. For years she had always thought she had Draco Malfoy worked out. Tonight he had proven her wrong.

So did she help him, even though she hated him? He was no different to her, after all, though she was loathe to admit it. He only wished to save the ones he loved, to retain his freedom. So he cared little about the others that would die. Was she any better? Did she really spend her days worrying about them? No. Her main concerns were her family and her friends, Harry and Ron and the Order. And her freedom. Yes, she wanted to walk down the street knowing that death wasn't waiting around every corner. She wanted to live in a world where she wasn't persecuted because of who she was.

Maybe Draco wanted different things, but who she was to decide whether he deserved his freedom or not? That was not her choice to make. But if she could prevent hundreds, maybe thousands, from dying, so be it, she would help him.

Mind made up, she grabbed her coat, slipped it on, and slid out of the building. She muttered a quick incantation to re-lock the gallery doors and turned to see Draco waiting for her at the bottom of the stone steps.

She moved to stand beside him. He didn't look at her.

"So?" he said

Hermione took a deep breath and wondered fleetingly what she was getting herself into.

"What do you need?"


	2. Part II

**Title: **A Killing Grace  
**Author: **Savage Midnight  
**Rating: **R  
**Disclaimer: **Any characters or concepts familiar to the Harry Potter universe belong to J.K. Rowling.  
**Summary: **In the midst of war, two enemies fight on common ground to bring the blood bath to an end. Hate and prejudice are flung aside, boundaries are broken, and the inevitable sacrifices are made.  
**Author Notes: **Written for the .mp3 fic challenge over at LJ. It's only about… say… four months late? Thanks to my beta's Di, to whom this is dedicated, and Erin, whose invaluable advice was immensely helpful.

---

**Part II**

The plan was simple. It was this:

At midnight they were both to meet at the art gallery. Hermione was to do nothing until that time, which meant staying home from work and avoiding Ron, Harry and the Order at all costs. No one was to know what had transpired that morning. As far as anyone else was concerned she had been missing since late last night.

This was easier said than done. Not only was it difficult finding somewhere to hide herself away for the day so she wouldn't be found, it was also difficult knowing what she was putting her friends through. They thought she was missing, that she had disappeared like so many of the Order had over the months, and she knew Harry and Ron and the others would be out there looking for her.

Unfortunately it was a necessary part of the plan. Draco was to return to his client to inform him that the job was done and Hermione Granger was officially dead. It was therefore important that Hermione wasn't seen roaming the streets or the Ministry after her unfortunate and untimely death. Any moron with half a brain cell would know something was up.

So at midnight they were to meet at the gallery, after which they would move on to the Ministry. According to Draco, the contents of the Vaults that Hermione had spent so many nights searching for hadn't been moved, though the security wards had been strengthened three-fold. The big-wigs, as Draco liked to call them, had not seen the point in re-locating the hidden stash, considering that the only girl who had even come close to discovering it would soon be dead and any sudden upheaval within the Vaults would likely cause suspicion.

The plan, therefore, was to retrieve the contents that Hermione and the Order so desperately needed to bring Voldemort down.

"It won't destroy him," Draco had said. "But the Ministry is his strongest weapon. He's been working them from the inside for years, manipulating those at the top, using their resources. Take that away and his power is limited. You'll have a better chance at him, then."

The only problem was making sure that the information they found fell into the right hands. Draco was certain he knew most of the key players who were under Voldemort's order, but if he was wrong it could all turn out to be for nothing. If they were to take their findings to the press, only to find that they, too, were somehow involved in this mass conspiracy Hermione had only learned about today, what then? They were both dead. Hermione, for knowing too much, and Draco for not killing her in the first place.

But the Order would know, surely? No doubt they had the means to leak the information to the right people. If not, she was sure they would find away to use it to their advantage.

The key to this whole plan, however, was getting out alive. Not only did they have to find a way to get into the Ministry without being seen, they also had to bypass the new security measures and deactivate the curses sealing the Vaults shut. Easier said than done. Any magic used to protect such incriminating and valuable evidence was no doubt darker than Hermione was used to. If she had chosen to be a curse-breaker instead of an Auror back in her seventh year, things would have been different. Then again, she wouldn't have access to the Ministry Vaults like she did now.

Their current dilemma was what led her to Diagon Alley at nightfall. Hidden in the shadows outside Gringotts Bank, she waited patiently. Forty minutes later, Bill Weasley stepped out of the front doors and disappeared down the street. She followed close behind, sticking to the shadows until she was sure they were both alone. Now was the time to make her move.

But just as Hermione made to step out into the street, a strong hand clamped over her mouth and an arm coiled around her waist, dragging her back into the darkness and down a nearby alley. Instinctively she moved to retrieve her wand from her coat pocket, but a familiar voice froze her movements.

"What part of _lie low_ did you not understand?" hissed Malfoy, his breath hot against her ear. He released her and spun her so she was facing him, so she could see his features, softened by the darkness but no less angry. Hermione subconsciously took a tiny step back, her body buzzing with adrenaline.

"Bill can help us, Malfoy," she explained. "He's the only one--"

"You think I want help from a Weasley?" he scoffed, and Hermione was reminded of the petulant little boy she had hated at Hogwarts. Maybe some things didn't change.

"He's a curse-breaker," she stated calmly. "And a good one. He can get us into the Vaults."

"There's more than one curse-breaker in this God forsaken city, Granger. I told you I'd handle the details. And I told you to stay out of sight. So far you've done a piss-poor job of that."

She glared at him. "I'm not stupid, Malfoy. I was careful. I--"

Malfoy's grey eyes suddenly blazed with barely-leashed fury and the words died in her throat. He took a predatory step towards her and she found herself involuntarily moving backwards, her back colliding with the harsh brick wall of the alley. Draco loomed over her, arms braced each side of her head.

"_You were seen_," he said, in a low, tight voice.

She gaped at him, horrified, and searched his face for any trace of lie. But there was nothing but honesty there, stark and real.

She swallowed heavily and turned her face away, blinking back tears. _Oh God, _she thought. _I've killed us both._

"Malfoy, I--" The lump in her throat was painful and her voice was nothing more than a husky rasp. "--I'm sorry. I thought I was being careful. I didn't know--"

"Spare me," he snapped, and leaned forward until his face was inches from hers, his eyes two silver daggers in the darkness. "You're just lucky it was one of my own that saw you. I would have gutted you long before now if it had been anyone else."

He pushed himself away from the wall and turned away from her, biting out orders as he made his way to the entrance of alleyway to check for signs of life. But Hermione barely heard him over the roaring in her ears. Relief had left her shaking; her limbs refused to do anything she told them to and breathing was becoming too difficult a task. She would have thought herself dead had it not been for the wild thumping of her heart.

"Granger."

Draco appeared in front of her again, clearly irritated. "If you don't start breathing in a minute, I'll wheel you down to the morgue myself."

At his words, her breath gushed out of her in one long sigh, and she drew it in just as quickly. Her chest ached and she felt dizzy, but a furious anger started to seep through her dazed state.

"You're a bastard, Malfoy," she seethed, as she followed him out of the alleyway, limbs finally working on command.

Draco glanced back at her, a smirk on his face.

"Naturally."

---

Under the cover of darkness and a well-placed glamour spell, the unlikely duo returned to Draco's apartment on the outskirts of London. The Slytherin Prince no longer trusted Hermione to keep herself hidden and had persuaded her to accompany him to his home until she was needed.

Of course, Draco's methods of persuasion had been a little more unorthodox than she was used to, but she had been in no position to argue. She had already messed up once tonight; she would be damned if she would again.

During their short walk from the empty ruins of an old garage they had Apparated into--it was not possible to Apparate straight to Draco's apartment for security reasons--Malfoy would occasionally cast her a warning glance, as if daring her to step out of line. She didn't. She walked beside him in silence, fingers absently playing with her short hair, the straight, black locks reminding her, unnervingly, of Pansy Parkinson.

Her nose crinkled in distaste at the necessity of her disguise. However, she had to wonder why she hadn't thought of it before, when she had foolishly decided to enlist Bill Weasley's help. Surely she would have been able to convince him, despite the disguise?

Either way, the damage was done. Draco no longer trusted her, if he ever had, and Hermione was loathe to trust him in return. Did it make any difference that she believed everything he had told her? He was the master of lies, after all. No one at Hogwarts had known that he had taken the Dark Mark on his sixteenth birthday, that while he slept, ate and laughed beside them, he was really against them, allied to a darker force they could not even begin to comprehend.

So why was she helping him? Why was tonight any different from the hundreds of other times he had weaved his web of deceit and manipulated those he cared little for?

It was no different. No doubt he had spun a few lies already, twisted a few half-truths to paint a sweeter picture. He had manipulated her with promises of the future, of what might be, of what could happen to her friends and family if she didn't help him. Yes, she was his puppet, but not altogether powerless. Without her, he would find it nigh-on impossible to get into the Ministry. For all his talk of curse-breakers, it was doubtful he knew someone with the right clearance. If he did, it was probably someone of a questionable nature, someone they probably shouldn't trust.

_That's why he came to me_, she thought. _I'm the only one he can trust._

And if he wanted her dead? Well, she would have been so already if he had. She doubted he was leading her into trap, ready to give her up to Voldemort. It seemed a lot of effort to go to when just this morning he could have done with her what he wished. And not only that, but Herrmione sensed there was little love lost between the Death Eater and the Dark Lord.

In the end, though, all she had to go on was her instinct. If she turned out to be wrong, she was dead. If not, she would be helping to save thousands, maybe millions. It was a sacrifice she had already chosen to make.

It did little, however, to calm her nerves as she stepped into Draco's spacious apartment. It was dark and scarcely furnished, as she expected, but she was surprised to see several familiar muggle contraptions scattered about the place. There was an impressive entertainment system dominating the far wall, with shelves filled with a colourful array of DVDs. A black cordless phone sat atop a small coffee table, beside a tiny touch lamp that cast a soft glow over the room, illuminating what she could now see was a set of car keys.

Draco drove a car?

"You drive?" she asked, following him across the room that served as both a lounge and a dining room and into the kitchen. The flick of a light switch revealed a surprisingly small room, large black tiles under her feet, granite worktops and chrome appliances. There was a breakfast island in the middle, with small overhead lights adding warmth to the otherwise sterile room. Hermione was further surprised to see half-empty Chinese cartons spread across its surface.

"I drive when it's necessary," he finally answered, clearing the surfaces and offering her a seat at the breakfast bar. "Sometimes it makes my job easier."

_You mean it makes it easier for you to kill people_, she thought, watching him warily as she sat. _Few would suspect a wizard who drives._

It was widely known in their world that wizards could be tracked through their magic. But no wizard would think to track their suspect through a number plate, or by fingerprints left behind.

_So that's why you use a dagger_, she realised. _Just wipe the blood from your blade and leave the mess for their families to find. Because you know that no wizard would drag the Muggle police in to investigate, and if they did, what would they find? A bare apartment and a man that can disappear in a flash, a man who can change the way he looks with a potion or a whispered incantation._

She stared absently at the surface beneath her fingers as the nature of her predicament began to finally sink in. She was here, alone, with a boy she didn't know anymore; a boy who killed for money.

So what did that make her? The girl who was offering her help? The girl who, for one split second, had pitied the boy who spoke of unfathomable despair?

Who was she to feel any compassion for the monster who had held a dagger to her throat?

She looked up at him and wondered how anyone so beautiful could be so deadly. The hands that were now pouring coffee into two, large black mugs were the hands of a killer.

_How many people have you killed,_ she wondered. _How many lives have you destroyed?_

And then another thought, unwelcome and insignificant in her eyes:

_How many of them deserved it?_

But she voiced none of these questions. Instead she kept quiet and sipped at the black coffee Draco had placed in front of her, occasionally casting curious glances over the rim of her mug.

"I suggest you remain disguised while we do this," Malfoy suddenly said, a strange look on his face as he spoke. "In case you're seen."

Hermione scowled but reluctantly agreed. The changes weren't even that drastic; her hair was shorter, black and straight, her eyes a subdued blue and her skin a shade or two darker. What she didn't like was the fact that her disguise was an improvement. After catching sight of herself in a shop window on their way over to the apartment, she had been surprised by how much healthier she looked. She had never bothered to care about her appearance before, but she hadn't realised until now how the war had started to wear on her. Somewhere along the way she had gotten used to the dark circles under her eyes, the dullness of her gaze and the deathly pallor of her skin.

Now she possessed an almost exotic look and was it not for the way Malfoy kept glancing at her, she wouldn't have given it a second thought.

And then it suddenly dawned on her why he was looking at her so strangely.

"Wipe that damn look off your face," she snapped, eyes narrowed into angry slits. "I didn't come here so you could gawk at me."

"Don't flatter yourself," he sneered, rising from his stool and turning to place his mug in the sink. When he turned back his face was a mask of cold indifference.

"Go get some rest," he said. "It's been a long day and I need you alert tonight. The guestroom is upstairs on your left."

Hermione made to protest, but before she could, he was gone, leaving her alone in the kitchen. Even as she thought about following him and issuing a few orders of her own, she felt the tiredness creep over her. How long had it been since she had slept? She had gone to the art gallery this morning because she had been unable to sleep that night, and after that there had been no safe time for her to rest. Now, though, she knew she was safe. Sleeping under the roof of a killer might have been a bad idea otherwise, but Malfoy needed her. She was important. Which meant he would protect her if need be.

What was a few hours, anyway? It was barely eight o'clock and they weren't due at the gallery until midnight. According to Draco, they were to meet his associate there, the curse-breaker who would be helping them to crack the security of the Vaults. Until that time, there was really nothing for her to do.

_A few hours. That's all I need._

With a sigh of annoyance -- she loathed being told what to do -- she rose from her stool and went in search of the guestroom.


	3. Part III

**Title: **A Killing Grace  
**Author: **Savage Midnight  
**Rating: **R  
**Disclaimer: **Any characters or concepts familiar to the Harry Potter universe belong to J.K. Rowling.  
**Summary: **In the midst of war, two enemies fight on common ground to bring the blood bath to an end. Hate and prejudice are flung aside, boundaries are broken, and the inevitable sacrifices are made.  
**Author Notes: **Written for the .mp3 fic challenge over at LJ. It's only about… say… four months late? Thanks to my beta's Di, to whom this is dedicated, and Erin, whose invaluable advice was immensely helpful.

---

**Part III**

Her head and heart were pounding as Hermione and Draco sprinted through the back streets of London. She glanced behind her and just managed to make out the shadowed outline of the Auror that was tailing them before Draco swerved suddenly, disappearing around a corner and dragging her with him. He pulled her behind him and peered cautiously into the street.

"Malfoy, what the h--"

"He's going to follow us all the way to the gallery if we don't deal with this now," he explained, breathing heavily as he moved back into the shadows. Hermione saw him reach for his dagger a second before his words sank in.

"Oh God," she whispered, shaking her head. "You can't. You--"

"I can and I will," he answered coldly, stance posed and dagger at the ready. Hermione was only thankful that she couldn't see his face from her position. She was afraid of what she might find there. Would it be bloodlust or apathy or rage? Or would it be simple, painful resignation?

Her throat tightened. There was no going back now. If they were seen, it was over. Any Auror who spotted Draco Malfoy, son of the infamous Death Eater, was not likely to let him walk away without a fight.

But did it always have to end like this? With someone's blood painting the walls?

_No_, she thought venomously. **_No_**.

"Draco, please," she whispered calmly. "He doesn't have to die. Just give me a chance to--"

But it was too late. Before she had time to finish, Draco had taken a lazy step forward and she saw the flash of his dagger the same second she caught sight of their pursuer. 

Hermione snapped her eyes shut. _Oh God. Lavender._

They had assumed that the person following them was a man and she had only hoped that it wasn't anyone she knew.

But already she could see it; that gleaming slice of his dagger, Lavender's pale throat spilling blood on to the concrete. She felt nausea rise up her throat, already clogged with the threat of tears.

Draco's impatient voice rang out in the silence of street. "Open your eyes, Granger."

_No. I don't want to look. Please don't make me look._

Harsh hands came up to cradle her face, thumbs resting against her temples as he raised her head and made her look at him. Her eyes popped open at his first touch and she stared pointedly into his eyes, too afraid to look anywhere else.

"What did you do?" she whispered. "**_What did you do!_**" 

She pushed him away, suddenly motivated by sheer hysteria, and stepped hesitantly towards the crumple form of her friend. But as she moved closer, she saw no sign of blood, no sign of a wound.

Hermione knelt down next to the Auror and pulled her into her arms, fingers seeking out a pulse. She breathed a heavy sigh of relief when she found one. Lavender was alive.

It was then that she noticed the ugly red mark marring her friend's left temple and realisation washed over her. Draco had knocked her unconscious.

"Jesus," she breathed, and slumped tiredly over Lavender's limp body. Her hands trembled as she drew them towards her chest and a tiny, relieved sob escaped her.

"We don't have time for this," Draco snapped behind her. "Get up."

She stiffened. Her jaw tightened, her hands clenched, and her flat brown eyes flared and narrowed into angry slits. She rose slowly, approached him slowly, but the movement of her hand was quick and sharp and the sound of it hitting flesh was a loud crack in the darkness.

"Stop it," she hissed, ignoring the cold glare he fired her way. "Stop ordering me around like I'm your lackey. I'm not. You need me. Remember that."

And then she turned and walked away, certain that this time, he would be the one doing the following.

---

They were ten minutes early, but Draco's associate was already waiting. 

To say that she was not what Hermione was expecting was an understatement. The girl sitting on the front steps of the gallery smoking a cigarette looked to be barely out of her teens. Seventeen, eighteen, perhaps? She had classic features, simple but beautiful, framed by a tumble of glossy, brunette curls that Hermione envied. Her tall, lithe figure was encased completely in black, from the long-sleeved shirt and jeans, to the Doc Martin boots and the thin black headband in her hair.

She rose from the steps as she saw them approach, taking one last drag of her cigarette before stubbing it out beneath the heel of her boot. She watched them both intently with dark eyes as they walked towards her.

"Hey." She took an easy step forward and curled her arms around Draco's neck. And to Hermione's surprise, Draco met her embrace, wrapping his own arms around her waist and holding her to him. After a short moment he pulled away slightly, kissed her lightly on the temple and turned towards Hermione.

"Granger, this is Ann-Marie," he said. "Our curse-breaker."

The last thing Hermione expected from the sombre young girl in front of her was a radiant smile and a hearty handshake, yet she found her hand encased in another, anyway, manicured fingernails a glaring contrast to her own bitten stubs. The girl was chatting away animatedly and beneath the polished, cultured voice, Hermione caught the faint undertones of a Liverpudlian accent.

"... to school with Draco. He doesn't talk about it much. Don't know why. Never bothered to ask. I just figure that it's--"

"Ams."

The girl glanced at Draco and smiled cheekily. "Sorry," she said lightly, and then leant forward towards Hermione to whisper loudly, "He hates it when I get personal. He's all business, this guy."

"So how about we get down to some?" Draco retorted and pulled the dagger Hermione was now all too familiar with from the waistband of his trousers.

It was with one sharp movement that he struck. The dagger whistled through the air and there was a collective gasp before everything felt quiet. This time Hermione's eyes were wide open and seeing, and after a long moment she turned to stare at Ann-Marie in horrified fascination.

There was now a single, shallow cut marring the left side of the girl's face. It was only just beginning to bleed and she watched as the curse-breaker lifted her hand to prod gently at the wound.

"Ow," she said, and scowled at Draco.

"Wuss," insulted the boy and slid his dagger back into place.

Hermione watched the entire scene in dazed disbelief. This was... this whole thing was... she couldn't even _begin_ to...

"What. In. The. _Hell_," she screeched, "Was. That!"

Draco and Ann-Marie both turned in unison at her outburst. Neither looked at all surprised by her reaction, but considering what these people considered normal human behaviour, that was no surprise.

"Plan B," Draco stated reasonably. "Now lets go."

And then he started walking briskly down the street, towards the Ministry, hands buried deep in his pockets. The Ministry was at least half-a-mile walk from here but due to the heavy duty anti-Apparation spells now in place, they had little choice but to continue their journey on foot.

"Hey!" Hermione shouted as she jogged to catch up to him and an amused Ann-Marie. "Hey! Hey! Hey!"

Draco paused and turned, irritation written clean across his features. "_What_?"

"An explanation _might_ be nice," she answered tightly, folding her arms over her chest. She stared resolutely at the boy who merely rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"_Fine_," he agreed through gritted teeth. "Plan A is this. We go in, get what we came for, and get out. If Plan A should go wrong, there's Plan B, which requires both you and Ann-Marie to run as fast and as far as possible. Should you get caught, Granger, your glamour should stay in place long enough for you to find a way out. Ann-Marie doesn't have that luxury. The Dark Mark identifies us for who we are, no matter what we look like. And if, by chance, she does happen to get caught, I don't want Voldemort thinking she was anything but an unwilling participant in this whole fiasco. Got it?"

Hermione shook her head uncertainly. "But she's not--"

She froze and turned just in time to see Ann-Marie raising her arm and rolling up her shirtsleeve. She watched, entranced, as the familiar tattoo was slowly revealed, identifying the young teenager as a Death Eater and rendering Hermione speechless.

Oh God, how could she have been so _stupid_?

Hermione took a shaky step back and stared at them in disbelief. "You played me," she accused in a quiet voice, eyes trained solely on the boy in front of her. She kept moving backwards in tiny, baby steps, despite her need to simply turn around and run full pelt in the opposite direction. "You played me, you son-of-a-bitch."

Malfoy merely looked bored. With a sigh of annoyance he took a step towards her, wrapped his hand around her bicep and propelled her forward. "If I was going to play you, Granger, I could do it all by myself," he said, as he marched her down the street. Ann-Marie fell into stride on her left, looking sombre.

_Okay, don't panic_, she thought. _Do. Not. Panic. Things could be worse. I could be a whole lot deader right now._

"Do you honestly expect me to believe that not one, but two Death Eaters want to see Voldemort dead?" she sneered. "Not likely, Malfoy."

"Believe what you want. It's what you've always done, Granger, and it's what you'll always do."

"What's that supposed to mean?!"

"It means that some of us don't always have a choice when it comes to choosing who we're going to become," came Ann-Marie's soft, solemn voice. Hermione turned to look at her and found not a hyperactive, mischievous teenager, but a hardened young woman. The intensity of her gaze made Hermione shudder and she turned her gaze away.

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

---

Getting into the Ministry was the easy part. With Hermione's clearance they were able to walk right into the heart of the building with no trouble at all. Of course, it would have been just as easy for her to accidentally mutter the incantation that would trigger the silent alarm rather than deactivate the basic security measures -- after all, neither Draco or Ann-Marie would know the difference -- but if Draco was right and Voldemort truly was working the Ministry from the inside, then it wasn't safe for any of them, especially her.

In spite of that, Hermione had already made her decision before she had come here. There was too much to lose if she was unwilling to trust Draco. Yes, maybe a life would be lost -- her own, no doubt -- but at least she would know she hadn't turned her back on their only chance to bring down Voldemort and save her people.

If she walked away now, they had nothing. Their numbers were too depleted and war was inevitable.

But Draco Malfoy, Death Eater and enemy, was handing her a weapon with which to fight, and she was not able to refuse it.

Yet she was still afraid. Still waiting for the trap to spring. She took every step with bated breath and watched every shadow that slinked its way across her path. Every now and again her gaze would shift to Draco and Ann-Marie. Draco's expression never changed as they walked. He continued to look bored yet surprisingly alert, while Ann-Marie simply looked thoughtful.

It still unnerved Hermione to see a hardened Death Eater in the place of the bubbly, affectionate young girl she had met earlier. Her polished accent no longer spoke of a cultured life, a sheltered, pampered life; it was cold and cutting, a clipped tone to keep the distance and cut a man down to his knees. Her beautiful features were frozen, smooth like marble, hardened and lifeless and breathtaking in their intensity. She was something else, something Hermione recognised, and it was only when Ann-Marie's sharp gaze caught hers that she realised.

Ann-Marie wasn't just a Death Eater.

She was a killer.

Hermione used to think they were one and the same. It wasn't so. Death Eaters were cruel, but they killed for the cause. Killers killed for themselves alone. So which were deadlier? Which would be the first to draw their swords?

_We're too young for this_, came the sudden thought. _We're kids fighting a war older than ourselves, killing our classmates without a second thought because it's all we know._

The truth of it was as ugly as the war itself. They were a generation bred for one reason alone. To kill and maim and destroy. To win, no matter the side they chose.

Ann-Marie was right. There had been no choice when it came to choosing who they wanted to become. They had been raised warriors, and the process was so subtle that they had barely noticed it, had barely seen the changes from innocent to murderer, until one day that bloodlust had become impossible to ignore.

It had made a lot of them hateful, and no matter what side they fought for, it was still ugly. Blood never ceased to be spilled.

And would anything truly change if she did this? If she helped to bring down the very thing that had sparked that hate? Or would it live on into the next generation, and the next, until it became second nature for every witch and wizard to be constantly riding the killing edge, waiting and waiting until that bloodlust was finally satiated.

She couldn't think about that. It was the here and now that mattered.

Once they reached the Vaults, Hermione turned to look at Ann-Marie.

"Can you do this?" she asked cautiously as she watched the curse-breaker pace slowly in front of the thick ebony doors. The girl paused for a second and cocked her head, listening. After a long moment, she answered with a nod and a confident, "yup," before drifting off down the corridor.

Hermione glanced at Draco. "Where is she--"

"Security check," he cut in, his tone as bland and as bored as he looked. She expected him to at least look slightly nervous or excited, hell, even nauseous, but no, he simply looked indifferent. Never mind that all their lives hung in the balance at this precise moment in time. Typical bloody Malfoy.

The minutes ticked by in silence. Ann-Marie still hadn't returned and Hermione was getting antsy. Daring another glance towards Draco, she voiced the question she had been dying to ask all night.

"So," she started. "You and Ann-Marie." She paused to study him from the corner of her eye, only to see him watching her, his gaze sleepy and hot. She knew that look. It meant she was treading on dangerous ground.

"How did you meet?"

The sleepy look vanished, only to be replaced by one of caution. It was obviously not the question he had been expecting, but it wasn't one he liked, either.

"Our fathers used to be friends," he answered after a long moment. His tone was clipped and brusque, clearly indicating that he didn't like the way this conversation was going. Still, Hermione pressed on, strangely intrigued. What had happened to spark an unlikely friendship between two completely different people, both killers, that would see them uniting to fight against their own cause?

"Used to be?"

"Her father's dead."

"Oh," said Hermione, when it became clear that he wasn't going to give her much more than that. Draco, it seemed, was not in a talkative mood tonight. As for her... well, she couldn't sit still and she felt the incessant need to start blathering on about absolutely anything just to fill the silence.

Lucky for her, Ann-Marie chose that time to finally return.

"It's clear," she said to Draco, and then turned towards the doors of the Vault. She stared at them contemplatively for another few minutes before kneeling down in front of them.

"Give me an hour," she told them and closed her eyes.

There was a long stretch of silence before Draco nodded his head toward the far exit, instructing her to follow him. She did so, and they both left Ann-Marie behind to work her magic.

---

It took her fifty minutes. Fifty minutes of awkward silence that Hermione had struggled to fill before Draco had told her to shut up babbling and keep an eye out for any sign of trouble.

When the three of them finally ventured into the Vaults, Hermione immediately felt the heavy pressure of dark magic weighing down on her. Malfoy hadn't been wrong when he said that they had upped the security measures since her last visit here; the stench of multiple incantations, old and new, hung heavy in the air and the entire place screamed _Voldemort_.

She didn't like it. This was her home away from home, her sanctuary, and it was tainted.

She followed Draco instinctively through the cavernous hall, stretching her senses outward and probing for signs of unexpected booby-traps as they walked. After concluding that they were relatively safe for the time being but opting to err on the side of caution, she lowered her voice to a whisper and asked, "Do you know what we're looking for?"

Draco's answer was a brusque, "Yes," before he finally stopped in front of a non-descriptive alcove. He studied it for a long moment before turning to look behind him. "Ams."

The curse-breaker, who at that moment was prowling through the hall, gazing at the numerous alcoves curiously, looked up and made her way over to where they stood. "This it?" she said to Draco and received a curt nod in confirmation. And then she fell silent. Her eyes slipped closed and her hands came up to trace the air in front of the alcove.

"Fuck me, Draco, this is dark shit," the girl suddenly exclaimed, her Liverpudlian accent coming through thick and heavy. Hermione found it odd how a curse-breaking Death Eater could be so horrified by such a strong use of dark magic, but thought nothing more about it. After all, the girl was an oddball in herself.

"How long?" enquired Draco.

Ann-Marie shook her head. "Don't know. There's too many layers to tell. An hour, maybe two. I can try breaking as many as I can tonight, but we may need more time."

"No. We do this tonight or not at all. We can't risk them knowing what we're up to."

The girl looked uncertain for a moment and Hermione felt her last thread of hope stretch to breaking point. If this didn't work, they had nothing. No way to fight a hopeless war. No way to keep her friends safe. Harry wasn't enough anymore.

She stared at Ann-Marie with desperate pleading, though the girl, with her intense gaze trained on Draco, did not notice. Hermione had little time to consider the implications of their situation; that Ann-Marie, a Death Eater and her enemy, was her last and only hope. It was beyond her rationalisation, and so it was therefore best that it was not rationalised at all.

It was with barely-contained relief that Hermione saw the curse-breaker nod. She then turned back to the alcove with a look of quiet determination glittering in her dark eyes, and the Gryffindor nearly wept in gratitude.

"Go keep an eye out," Ann-Marie instructed them. "I'll call you when I'm done."

And without hesitation, they did as they were told.


	4. Part IV

**Title: **A Killing Grace  
**Author: **Savage Midnight  
**Rating: **R  
**Disclaimer: **Any characters or concepts familiar to the Harry Potter universe belong to J.K. Rowling.  
**Summary: **In the midst of war, two enemies fight on common ground to bring the blood bath to an end. Hate and prejudice are flung aside, boundaries are broken, and the inevitable sacrifices are made.  
**Author Notes: **Written for the .mp3 fic challenge over at LJ. It's only about… say… four months late? Thanks to my beta's Di, to whom this is dedicated, and Erin, whose invaluable advice was immensely helpful.

---

**Part IV**

They spoke, inevitably, of the war.

Hermione learnt why Draco's devotion towards Voldemort and his cause had slowly begun to erode over the years. In Lucius, Draco had seen nothing more than a slave. Once one of the most powerful men in wizarding society, Lucius was now considered nothing more than a weak-minded lackey in the eyes of his son, and there was little to be done to reverse his opinion. Draco's whole reason for originally supporting Voldemort's cause was to see the eventual containment of all those he considered inferior, so that he and the others would be free to indulge in the prejudices of their superiority.

In other words, Draco simply wanted to prove he was better. But after witnessing the slow decay of father's character, he learnt that Voldemort was perhaps not the best person to enforce that superiority. The Dark Lord wished only to display and maintain his own.

So while the dark wizard openly boasted of his ever-increasing following that now, to his delight, included the youngest Malfoy, Draco was silently and slowly separating himself from his father's legacy by building his own. It was not one of virtue, but it was his, and one created by his own hands. His connections to Voldemort had merely opened the door to a more independent way of life and Draco became, in effect, his own master. But still he was aware of the limitations of his freedom, and he wanted free of Voldemort completely.

Hermione asked him if he felt even a little compassion for those that had died for the sake of his supposed cause, and he answered that he did not. They had not mattered before; why should they matter now? He had watched his classmates turn to savagery for the sake of such a cause, and felt no pity in their demise.

_They chose to fight_, he had said. _In that they chose to die._

So she asked in return: _Why do you fight now? _

And he had answered: _Because I know, in this, we can win. _

She had no energy to argue his case, to point out that, even if they were to win the war, he would still be continuing the bloodshed, albeit on a much smaller scale.

And now they sat in silence and it stretched and stretched, until finally, in a quiet voice that she was almost ashamed of, she asked, "Why do you hate my kind?"

It made her nauseas to ask, because it shouldn't have mattered. She didn't care to listen to his blind rhetoric; even the question itself made something inside of her hurt. Because the discrimination was there, in her words. _My kind._ Her kind, his kind, their kind. What difference did it make?

But if the war had taught her anything, it was that everybody had a reason. They all fought for _something_. And it didn't matter how petty or weak or stupid the reason, it was theirs, and it made every bit of difference. Wars didn't just happen. People made them happen. People chose to let them happen. Even if it only took one -- one person, one reason -- it was enough.

So she asked because she wanted to know his reason. She didn't want to understand, and maybe it was ignorant of her, but she wasn't that person anymore. She couldn't be that girl who saw good in everyone, and logic in every action, because wars didn't call for understanding. It just was. You could rationalise it down to its darkest secret and every war would whisper the same thing over and over. Power. And you could pretend to understand it, but you never would, because war was fought with instinct, not knowledge, and it was the same every time. It was one war, fought over and over, and the only thing to do was pray that you didn't survive one only to witness another.

But she wasn't asking to understand. She was asking out of curiosity.

At first she didn't think he would answer. He was leant against the wall, one foot bent under him, staring at her intently with charcoal-grey eyes. Every now and again she caught the gleam of his dagger as he absently flipped it between the fingers of his right hand, and he looked so much like a muggle stood there that she suddenly felt angry. It was unfair that Malfoy, of all people, would have no problems assimilating into either world, while she was considered inferior in one and an abomination in the other. She hated him a little more for that.

"I don't hate you," he finally answered, in a soft, matter-of-fact tone, "or your kind. I used to, a long time ago. But I don't see the significance in hating something of no importance. As people you mean little to me. As individuals? I take them as they come. I appreciate fragments of your culture, but I consider my own to be superior in comparison." He paused and regarded her solemnly. "I don't respect you as people, Hermione. You fail to preserve our way of life, and even then we have to hide it from you. We have to apologise for who we are, for our magics, because most of you aren't sensible enough to recognise your own envy and bury it. You fear us because you know we're better."

"That's a lie," was her quiet reply, at which Draco's gaze suddenly turned curious. She met his stare head on, and ventured forward towards him. "I think to appreciate one culture, you have to recognise the follies of your own." She stopped mere feet away from him, gauging his reaction. "Your world is lazy, Draco. You use magic for the sake of it, not for its necessity. In that my world is superior. We've learnt to survive, to evolve, by our own means. You haven't."

She moved then, turning to walk lazy lengths back and forth. Draco watched her as she went, steely eyes tracking her movements as he waited for her to continue on whatever thread she had deemed to follow.

"If you want to argue logistics, you could say my world is just as lazy. We drive cars and ride buses, when are legs are just as proficient at carrying us. We have escalators and lifts when we're perfectly capable of climbing a flight of stairs. Everyday we're trying to find a new way to make life easier, more simple. We're doing it by means of technology -- the only way we know -- and you, by magic -- the only way you know." She paused in her pacing and turned her head to look at him. "How does that make one culture better than another? How does that make this war any more justifiable?"

"Because magic is natural," he argued. "Your technology isn't."

Hermione smirked and shook her head. "Then by your logic, we're all potential witches and wizards. If what you say is true, and nature intended for us to possess magical tendencies, then it doesn't matter how diluted your kind become, or how hard you try to eliminate mine, magic will always exist. If it dates back to the beginning of man, and it's survived through the millennia, why do you expect it to disappear now? On the other hand, if magic were to become extinct, it would suggest that it has no place in the natural order of things, that it's your time to adapt accordingly, or perish. And if that's true, and magic is nothing more than a mutation, then by that same theory, _we_, the muggles came first, making us the purest race of the two."

Hermione, feeling strangely satisfied with herself, folded her arms across her chest and regarded Draco coolly. She felt empowered. She felt like her old self again, the Hermione who could break down every argument and render every point mote or just. It was silly and it was shallow, but it was her life, and for years she had wanted to have her say, to hear whatever argument might arise because of it and shoot it down.

The new Hermione knew it wasn't as easy as that. She couldn't debate the war away. She could argue her point until she was blue in the face, but people like Voldemort, like Lucius Malfoy and the Death Eaters, would hear none of it. Because in their eyes, no amount of logic would change the fact that they believed themselves to be better.

Was Draco Malfoy one of those people?

He was silent, as if he were honestly considering her words. But Hermione had little faith that they had made a difference to him; one did not change their whole belief system overnight.

And to prove her right, he simply smirked and in an amused tone, said, "You haven't changed a bit, Granger."

They didn't talk after that.

---

It was well after four in the morning when Ann-Marie finally managed to crack the last curse. She looked exhausted when Hermione and Draco joined her. While once she had looked exotic, she now looked drained. Her skin was porcelain white, her lustrous hair lank, and as she rose to her feet, Hermione caught the tremors in her legs. Her hands shook as Draco helped her up and she smiled weakly at him in thanks.

"O-okay. Stronger than I thought," she said in a quiet, raspy voice, wiping the sweat from her face with the back of her hand. "But it's done."

No one moved for a long moment, all of them aware that they were mere inches away from salvation. It was Draco that finally broke the silence, indicating for Hermione to grab the scrolls while he took care of Ann-Marie, wrapping her arm around his neck and supporting most of her weight.

"You good?" he asked her softly and Ann-Marie nodded confidently.

"Yeah, just need a recharge."

Hermione's hands shook as she grasped scroll after scroll and placed them in a black carry-all, which she then re-shrank and placed back in the pocket of her jeans. When she was done she nodded at Draco and together they all moved towards the exit, Ann-Marie hanging limply between them. Hermione could feel herself trembling as she took step after step, breath coming in shaky gasps that sounded harsh in the silence.

They passed alcove after alcove while they moved, until finally they came out into the main halls of the Ministry.

And then all hell broke loose.

---

One minute she was standing on unsteady feet, and the next she was falling. She ducked and rolled just in time as green sparks exploded by her feet and disintegrated just as fast. Breathing heavy, she turned her head to see Draco and Ann-Marie scrambling for cover within the Vaults. She followed instinctively, springing to her feet and sprinting the short distance back into the darkness of the cavern, narrowly missing another curse as she ran. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of the hooded figures hiding in the shadows of the Ministry and panic seized her.

She was barely safe within the Vaults before a hand wrapped itself around her neck. A familiar dagger came to rest against her windpipe and she stared up at Draco in horror.

"Drac--"

His hand tightened, cutting her off, and she gasped in outrage.

"You played me," he hissed, his grey eyes sparking with fury. His face was paler than she'd ever seen it and he was physically shaking. With anger or fear, she didn't know.

Oh God, she'd laugh at the irony of it if she wasn't so scared. Draco Malfoy, a Death Eater, her enemy, calling her a traitor. It didn't get more twisted than this.

"Malfoy," she whispered huskily as she tried to pry his fingers from her neck. "Malfoy, listen to me. They're not mine. They're not Aurors."

But he wasn't listening. His grip grew tighter still and now Hermione could barely breathe. She scrambled frantically, tearing at his fingers with her nails but to no avail. Grey dots began to dance across her vision, and as she fought to keep conscious, she choked out, "They're Death Eaters!"

And then, finally, his hand loosened and Hermione slumped against the wall, coughing harshly. After a short moment -- they didn't have time for this -- she looked up at Draco. He was silent, shaking his head in confusion.

"No," he said to himself. "No one else knows about this but us. Why would they--"

He froze and Hermione saw the realisation dawn across his face. Shock and horror filled his eyes and then, with painful slowness, he turned.

Too late Hermione saw who he was looking at.

And too late she saw the wand that Ann-Marie was pointing towards them.

---

"I'm sorry, Draco."

There were tears in Ann-Marie's eyes as she faced them. Hermione could see the trembling of her hand as she held her wand, but she didn't doubt that the girl would kill them if need be. She wasn't a Death Eater for nothing.

Draco looked mortified. He'd turned completely ashen at this point, his eyes hollow and black against his skin. He stood facing the curse-breaker, completely still, his dagger hanging loosely by his side, not caring that a horde of Death Eaters was waiting for them just outside of the Vaults. At this point they didn't seem to be a in a rush to kill them, but that was probably because they knew they were already trapped in here with one of their own and with no way out.

"I trusted you," Draco said softly and Hermione could see the tension in his muscles from where she was standing. He may have been devastated, but Draco was on alert all right. "And you screwed me."

Ann-Marie shook her head frantically and foolishly wiped at her eyes. Draco was waiting for that moment of distraction and he seized it, leaping across the distance and knocking her wand loose even as he was forcing her to her knees with her arm locked behind her back. Draco followed her descent, slipping to his knees behind her, and it was so much like the art gallery that Hermione wanted to turn away.

But she didn't. She watched as Draco curved an arm around Ann-Marie and pressed the dagger against her throat. There was silence, save for their ragged breathing, until Ann-Marie, with tears streaming down her beautiful face, began to speak in a low voice.

"I'm sorry, Draco. I didn't want this. He said he'd kill my family if I didn't. He knew you were slipping. He knew. He took them away from me. My mum, my baby sister. She's only two, Draco. I couldn't let her die. He said he'd let them go if I did this. I never meant--I didn't want it to be this way. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please, Draco, please."

No one moved or spoke as long seconds ticked by in silence.

And then Hermione saw Draco close his eyes in pain. He slumped backwards and his arm loosened and Ann-Marie turned slowly in his awkward embrace until their faces were bare inches apart."

"I'm sorry, love," she heard the girl whisper brokenly, before she leant forward and brushed her lips against Draco's.

A second later his eyes opened and Hermione would never forget the look in them. It was a look she never thought she'd see in Draco Malfoy's eyes.

Despair. Complete and utter despair. And there was regret there, too, and guilt, and shame, and the kind of love she didn't think he was capable of.

But most of all, there was understanding. Draco and Ann-Marie stared at each other for a long moment before they seemed to come to some sort of agreement. Ann-Marie nodded once and smiled sadly and Hermione knew what was about to happen.

And she knew she could do nothing about it. They didn't have a choice. If they failed, it was over. If Ann-Marie let them escape, Voldemort would know it.

So she did nothing. Nothing but turn her face away as Ann-Marie whispered softly to her lover.

And after a long, long moment passed and a lone gasp broke the silence, she closed her eyes and wept.

---

The group of Death Eaters waiting for them were easy enough to handle. No doubt they'd expected Ann-Marie to have them disarmed and helpless by the time they were needed, but what they did not expect was Draco Malfoy, who came flying out of the Vaults casting deadly curse after deadly curse. They barely had time to react before they were on their knees and Hermione managed the remaining few with ease.

When it was finished Draco was on his knees, breathing heavily and clenching his wand in a death grip. She gave him a moment and then, knowing they had no time to waste, she pulled him to his feet and looped his arm around her neck.

And after casting one last longing look toward the Vaults, she walked him towards the exit.


	5. Part V

**Title: **A Killing Grace  
**Author: **Savage Midnight  
**Rating: **R  
**Disclaimer: **Any characters or concepts familiar to the Harry Potter universe belong to J.K. Rowling.  
**Summary: **In the midst of war, two enemies fight on common ground to bring the blood bath to an end. Hate and prejudice are flung aside, boundaries are broken, and the inevitable sacrifices are made.  
**Author Notes: **Written for the .mp3 fic challenge over at LJ. It's only about… say… four months late? Thanks to my beta's Di, to whom this is dedicated, and Erin, whose invaluable advice was immensely helpful.

This is the fifth and final part of _A Killing Grace_, so I just want to take the time out to thank everyone for reading/reviewing this fic. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

---

**Part V**

She didn't hear the door open or close, or the shuffle of footsteps on the carpet. She didn't even hear him approach and would have thought herself alone had she not noticed his reflection in the mirror, blurred by the tears pooling in her eyes.

_I want my disguise back_, she thought, moments before Draco came to stand behind her. _I don't want to be Hermione anymore._

She had already stopped looking at the face that reflected back at her when he appeared, no longer caring for the weak, ordinary face that she saw there. How was anyone to find any real beauty in it? They would find no joy or sorrow written there; such fierce extremities did not light her face or cast it in shadow. And for all the magic they wielded, it was not in their power to read her eyes, to know the secrets of her soul just because they fancied themselves a friend. Those who shared them hadn't found them in one shattered look or one mysterious smile. They knew because she allowed it. They knew because they had lived it.

So what would a stranger think, to look at her? They would know something, but not everything. They would not know that she had taken life and saved it, that she laughed despite knowing the ache of death, that she knew the difference between giving up and giving in and teetered silently on the divide.

But ever since Draco Malfoy had carved his way back into her life, she had taken one step too far. She remembered the art gallery, his dagger resting against her heart, and his words, more lethal than his weapon.

_Do you want it to end, Hermione?_

And God, for that one second she had given up. For the first time since the war had started, she had wanted it to end. Before then it hadn't been about the causalities, the deaths, the months that had dragged on into years. It had been about winning. They were going to fight for as long as it took them to _win_. That was what they had fought for. That was not to say that the years of bloodshed didn't matter. They did. But every drop spilt had signified a step closer to their goal.

_And for one moment, you took that goal away from me. For one moment there was nothing worth fighting for._

When Ginny had died, when Neville, George and her parents had followed, there had been no giving up. Instead their determination had grown stronger, their need to win and reclaim the tatters of their lives and learn to live again in a world where death wasn't waiting around every corner the only thing that mattered. It was hard and painful and sometimes, just sometimes, it was unbearable. But giving up meant defeat. Giving up meant their death sentence.

So why, when Hermione looked in the mirror at the boy behind her, did she want to give in?

_Because I've seen what you've seen._ _Voldemort's armies lining the streets, muggles dying at their feet and half-bloods chained and gagged like animals._ _Is this what we're fighting for,_ she thought sadly. _Will this happen, no matter how hard we fight?_

She closed her eyes, unable to look any longer, afraid of what she might see there. Would there be grief in that gaze, or cold, hard apathy? Which would hurt more?

She stepped back blindly and felt his hands come up to steady her.

_You're real,_ she realised, as if his reflection in the mirror had been nothing but a ghost haunting her thoughts. But he was here, the monster who was not a monster, the boy who was not a boy, but something else entirely.

"What are you?" she whispered, unable to move away. Not who are you, but what. There were no "who's" in war. There were only the villains, the heroes, the dead and the living.

"Does it matter?" His hands fell away as he moved back and Hermione turned to look at him. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but there was nothing.

"This is what I do, Hermione," he said softly, his tone one of steely resolve. "I kill."

He stared at her with cold, indifferent eyes, daring her to deny it. She didn't. She simply nodded and stepped past him, head bowed. She wanted to turn back, to see him shed tears for his dead friend, to let her comfort him and shed a few of her own and whisper empty, pointless platitudes until she felt better. But she couldn't. It wasn't her right to grieve for Ann-Marie, not her place to grieve for him.

Did the monster feel nothing? Did the boy? Who was truly the killer here, or were they both one and the same? Did that moment of hesitation before he slid the dagger home mean anything or nothing?

Why did she even care? After all, what did it matter to her? What difference would it make he felt something, or nothing?

None. None at all.

And yet she still turned back.

"Draco--"

But she got no further than that, silenced by the boy's poisonous gaze.

"Spare me whatever platitudes you feel I need to hear," he hissed, and Hermione could almost feel the thrum of anger beating under his skin. She stepped towards him warily, calmly, eyes trained on his as if he were a dangerous animal.

_He is_, she thought. _Maybe not an animal, but dangerous all the same._

"You think you can save me, Granger?" he said in a low voice, moving towards her. "You think I _need _saving?"

"Why are you here?" she asked.

She saw the flicker of confusion pass over his features before it was gone. Her question had thrown him.

"In case you hadn't noticed, I live here."

"No." She took another step towards him. "I mean why did you come looking for me?" Another. "To see if I'm okay?" And another. She paused in front of him, watching. "So you could somehow prove to me that you don't care?"

He snarled at her, one hand seizing her around the throat and throwing her against the bedroom wall. "You think I don't care?"

She gasped in shock at the impact. Her hands came up to claw at his, but suddenly the hand tightened, then loosened, finally falling away as whatever anger had driven him fled his body, leaving him weak and shaking. He settled down on to the bed and bowed his head.

"I told you once that there were only a few I cared about," he whispered after a long moment. "She was one of the few. And she betrayed me. Maybe she didn't have a choice, but neither did I. I did what I had to do. Because that's who I am, Hermione." He lifted his steely gaze to stare at her, driving his point home.

He stood then, and moved to where she still stood against the wall. Her breath hitched in her chest as he brought his hand up and curled it around her neck, thumb brushing against her throat.

"We're both killers," he stated calmly, his gaze unwavering as he spoke. "The only difference between us is the reason why. You're fighting for a cause. I'm not. Does it make it easier? Maybe. But which one of us here needs saving, Hermione?"

She stared up at him, not trusting herself to speak. What would she say? Would she agree and finally admit that, yes, God, it was unbearable sometimes when you were forced to come face to face with who you really were. Because she was a killer, too. And it didn't matter that she only killed the bad guys, because it didn't change the fact that sometimes she dreamt of that last harrowing look before she struck them down. Some of them were children, barely out of school; kids like her who had grown up too fast and made irrevocable choices that had placed them on the wrong side of the war. Were they really bad guys? Some of them, maybe. But she didn't get to choose who lived or died; that power had been taken out of her hands the moment the war had begun and the Ministry had turned them into warriors.

But in the end it came down to the simplest question: did she regret her choice?

_No_. _Things could have been different, but they're not. I chose this life because it was right for me._

"I don't need saving," she finally said, and felt a comforting sort of certainty take over. No, she didn't need saving. She was who she was and she had chosen this life because of it.

_But don't ever expect me to understand_ _it_, she thought. _Death is death and it's everything I hate. If I loved it like you, I wouldn't be fighting this war. And don't expect me to hurt for you because she's dead. You killed her because it's all you know, and she died knowing that. She died loving you, never once hating you for it. And maybe I don't hate you, but I don't like who you are, what you do, the lives you take. I kill because I have to. You kill because you choose to and now you know nothing else._

And yet, despite herself, she closed her eyes to his touch, something inside of her tightening painfully, beautifully, at the feel of his fingers caressing the back of her neck.

_You're so beautiful_, her mind whispered, unable to grasp why and how someone like him could represent everything she hated about their world. Death never came in pretty packages in the war. It was ugly and raw and vulgar. But the man standing in front of her was none of these things; from the smooth lines of his face, to the subtleness of his strength and the gentleness of his fingers, he was a contradiction. He taunted, threatened, and killed, all with a quiet, graceful intensity that scared her more than his anger.

And what was worse? Knowing that this monster, this boy, possessed some twisted sense of honour that she would never be able to understand. She had seen it with her own two eyes, when Lavender could have easily become another dead body instead of deadweight in her arms, when Ann-Marie had known there was no other way but death and she had begged him, _please, please, make it quick,_ and he had, sliding the dagger in so sweetly, piercing the heart of his lover, his betrayer, so swiftly that she died with not even a whimper on her lips.

It had been so much worse, that silence, and tears trickled helplessly from her eyes at the memory. _You shouldn't have died. But you did, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry you loved him. _

_But I think I get him now. He hates to kill women because whatever compassion he feels is because of them. His mother, Pansy, you... you're the few that matter. He doesn't kill children because he knows they don't know any better. He knows because he was a child once, not long ago, and he knows how frail childhood can be. But men. They're different, aren't they? They took away the people that mattered to him and he hates them for it. He may not be his father's son, but Lucius shaped him. He taught him how to hate and nothing else and every man he kills is the same. I get that._

_But don't expect me to love him for it._

"Open your eyes," Draco said huskily, and she shook her head and turned her face away, unable to look at him, unwilling to see whatever it was Ann-Marie had seen in him.

He stepped closer, one hand brushing down so his thumb rested in the hollow beneath her ear. The other came up to press against the wall and he buried his head in her neck and repeated, "Open your eyes," in a low, pleading whisper.

She did and it was a mistake. She knew that even before her kissed her, slanting his mouth over hers and tasting her tentatively, as if unable to believe that it was her he was kissing and nobody else.

_Unable, or unwilling, _she thought sadly, and kissed him back.

---

He only kissed her once and Hermione knew, somehow, that it had nothing to do with her and everything to do with a girl that was no longer his. But it was enough; long and white-hot and intense, as if he were begging for her to understand, to forgive him for making her hurt.

_It doesn't hurt because I love you,_ she thought, as they shed their clothes and fell on to the bed without speaking. _It hurts because I don't hate you._

But any thoughts past that were distant. There was nothing but the feel of skin against skin, fingers tracing the contours of her body, sliding down and in until she was nothing more than a writhing heap of limbs on the bed. And then there was the sound of her panties tearing and a pressure between her legs that was so exquisite she forgot to breathe.

And it was everything she had expected it to be. It was war and beauty and in the end it left her raw and breathless.

Afterwards, when the world had shattered and rebuilt itself behind the darkness of her eyelids and they lay curled together, Draco whispered, "I hate him."

And she whispered back, "I know."

---

She left before dawn. Half an hour before, as Draco slept an exhausted sleep, she made copies of the documents they had managed to salvage that night and owled them to the remaining members of the Order. Then she slipped out, disguise in place, and never once looked back.

They were done. He had nothing else to offer her and she had nothing else to offer him. In the space of one night, Draco had lost a lover and she had gained pivotal information that would help the Order fight a once-hopeless war. It didn't seem a fair trade.

She arrived at Harry's just as the sun was beginning to crest over the horizon. He was already awake -- or had not yet slept -- when she Apparated into his living room and found him nestled into the corner of his couch, loose pieces of parchment scattered around him. She recognised the documents she had sent not even an hour before, clutched in his hand as he read over them with eyes ringed with permanent shadows.

He didn't even look at her when she appeared in front of his fireplace, and she waited patiently for a reaction, eager to catch even the slightest glimpse of hope or triumph in his eyes.

But when he did look at her there was nothing but a dull resignation in his eyes and Hermione nearly collapsed to her knees right there. She had yet to study the documents they had managed retrieve, only having skimmed a scant few of the pages, but she had prayed (God, how she had prayed) that there would be something within them that would vanish that vacant, defeated look in her friend's eyes.

Because up until now they had been losing. Voldemort's army was growing stronger and their search for the remaining horcruxes had led to nothing but dead-ends, one after the other. Soon they had begun to believe that the only way for it to end would be for Harry to confront Voldemort directly, to pit himself against the Dark Lord, strength against strength, and pray that, as the Prophecy had foretold, Harry would be the victor.

But Voldemort couldn't be found. While his minions were left to fight his war, he was rumoured to be in hiding, and despite the best efforts of the Order and their allies, who had spent months, nearly years, scouring the globe, interrogating Death Eaters and threatening the lives of his weak-willed followers for information, they failed to discover his whereabouts.

And so it was a stalemate and what followed was a year of waiting. There was nothing more to be done except prepare for Voldemort's inevitable attack. They had all assumed that the Dark Lord would strike eventually, and that Harry would undoubtedly be the target. But while their friends died in battle or disappeared in the dark of the night, Harry remained safe, as did Ron, as did Hermione. In fact, Voldemort himself had not made a move against his enemy in over two years.

It was therefore no surprise that their hopes of a final confrontation had eventually dwindled and died.

But now... now they had something in which to fight with. Hermione was almost certain that something within those pages would lead them to Voldemort. And then... well then they would fight. Not just Harry, but all of them. They would fight and they would win. They had to. _They had to._

And yet there was no hope in Harry's gaze as he stared at her. There wasn't even the barest hint of the bloodlust that often lingered there, the thirst for revenge that had begun with the death of his wife, Ginny, and grown in tandem with every sacrifice thereafter. It seemed, after years of fighting, Harry Potter had finally given up.

"Harry... " she whispered, tears burning her eyes, blurring her vision. "Harry, please." She was begging, begging him not as her friend, her classmate, her war companion, but as Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, the one destined to save them all. And it was selfish of her, so completely selfish, but she was so tired, so close to giving up, that she didn't know what else to do. She couldn't do it alone.

But he didn't answer, just continued to stare blindingly, and Hermione finally gave in and crumpled to the floor. She cried, loud and hard, for everything she had lost, and then harder still because she was being so selfish and so damn self-centred. Because they had all lost something. Not just her. Everyone.

And behind the darkness of her eyelids she saw Ron, with his broken smile and broken eyes, and she remembered the night before last when they were laid together in her bed, and he had sobbed into her neck because he missed his sister and his brother and his dad so badly, and he was so tired of being strong, so tired of trying to protect his family and failing, so fuckin' _tired_ of fighting this war.

She hadn't seen him since but she knew where he would be; the same place he always went in the aftermath of his breakdowns. He would walk for hours in the beginning, but his feet would always carry him to the graveyard, and then on to Luna Lovegood's house because she lived nearby, and there he would spend a few days warming her bed with his anger.

That was Ron's thing. Afterwards he would appear in her bedroom and take her out for dinner or to a movie, and that was his way of apologising, though he knew there was little need for it, because they all had their moments when it all became a little too much to bear, and there was no one to blame but the one that cared least for their tragedies.

But not one of them -- _not one_ -- had given up. Until now. And she realised then how much they depended on each other to keep themselves fighting. Without Harry, they were useless. She knew that, and she knew Harry knew that.

"Hermione."

Harry's voice. Harry calling her name. She knew this and yet she found she couldn't answer.

"Hermione," he repeated, softer this time, because now he was knelt in front of her, strong hands lifting her face up, long fingers wiping her eyes dry. "Hermione, I have to go now," he said regretfully and smiled sadly as Hermione erratically shook her head. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I don't want to leave, but there's something I have to do." He paused, swallowed heavily, and then whispered in a voice thick with tears, "Please forgive me, Hermione. Please forgive me for leaving you."

"Harry... " she said in a broken whisper as he kissed her forehead and then rose to his feet. "Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry... "

She was still crying his name long after he was gone.

---

**Epilogue**

They said it was quick.

They said it was painless.

They were liars.

There had been nothing quick or painless about it, not for them, not for the ones Harry had left behind.

She hated him a little, for not telling her. And then she felt ashamed for hating him, which made her angry, and she found when she was angry, it was much easier to hate him. It was a vicious cycle.

She sat down to study the scrolls three days later, even though she knew what she would find. And it was all right there. Harry's destiny scrawled across old parchment. Harry's destiny and Voldemort's destiny irrevocably linked from the moment the first curse was cast. It was his legacy to triumph over Voldemort, to die alongside him, because that was how the prophecy went. Nothing short of a selfless sacrifice would be enough, and Hermione sort of knew, in the back of her mind, that Harry had already known this, had known it for years.

And she knew now, why Voldemort fled, why he hid. Why the three of them had remained safe. Because he knew that to kill Harry was to kill himself. And he would not allow that to happen. If Harry had the knowledge that Voldemort possessed, he would no doubt sacrifice himself for the greater good. So Voldemort hid it, so Harry would never know how simple it was. And the only thing for Voldemort to do was wait until the war was won, until Harry had nothing and no one, until he was forced to bend to the Dark Lord's will.

But he had waited too long and invested his trust in the wrong Malfoy. The scrolls where found, Voldemort's location revealed, and now... now Harry was dead.

And Draco had known.

She stared blankly at him now, seated sideways on her window seat in her bedroom, long legs sprawled in front of him with one bent at the knee. He was gazing nonchalantly out of the window, as he had been doing when she first came in, and had yet to acknowledge her presence.

It was unexpected visit, and an unwelcome one at that.

"If you're here to tell me how it was all worth it in the end, I don't want to hear it," Hermione said with deadly softness as she moved towards her bed and began to undress for the night.

"No," he said, rising from his seat and moving towards her. He paused mere inches from her and with a gentle hand he brushed her hair from her neck and placed a hot, feather-light kiss against her pulse point. He lifted his head to stare at her solemnly. "I'm here to tell you I'm leaving."

Hermione swallowed heavily and nodded. She figured he'd be leaving soon. It wasn't safe for him here. Voldemort might have been dead but his followers were not. She knew there were some out there who wanted to see Draco Malfoy, the ultimate traitor, dead. And the Order no longer had the men or the resources to protect him. Not yet.

"Will you be back?"

And she would never know the reason she asked. This was the boy she had hated for years, the boy who had threatened, hurt her, killed his own lover in cold blood and sent Harry to his death. And she wanted to know when he would return, when he would be back in her life again.

But the boy just smiled at her question and said nothing. Instead he leant forward, brushing his lips against the shell of her ear, and whispered, "Soon."

And then he was gone.

And it was over.


End file.
